I look like such a buffoon in Washington. You might as well stick a clown nose on my face and give me unicycle to help me commute into work.

It’s not like anything horrible has happened. In fact, these past two weeks have been the most fun I have had in a long time. However, I’m a girl from Lincoln, NE. I travel frequently so it’s not like I’m incompetent, but there are a few things I have noticed about myself that make me go, “Oh, crap. I’m that girl.” – you know, that girl who obviously is not from here.

For one, I’m trying way too hard to look like I know what I’m doing. I’ll wear pretty heels into work and by the end of the day, I’ve tripped and scuffed my knees while going up the infamously steep Woodley Park Metro elevator. Heels that click on tile make me look like I know what I’m doing; when I fall in them, it
just looks like I need medical attention.

Walking around the city is the best means of getting anywhere. A fluorescent man means “go”, but apparently a flashing red hand also means “go” when it’s 5:30 pm and you’ve had a busy day and you don’t care whether or not you live or die. Let God decide whether or not you matrix your way out of traffic as other pedestrians watch you dodge cars like Morpheus dodges bullets.

Escalators are here to help—not here to haul. And, if you want to be hauled and herded, stay on the right hand side. Otherwise, I will grumpily huff at you from behind at a volume that doesn’t disturb you, but lets the people around me know that I hate you. I want everyone else around me to also recognize my escalator strife.

When I grabbed my credentials to get into the Capitol building with CQ Roll Call, I realized why they call them “Press Galleries”—they’re actual art galleries. George Washington on the Potomac? That painting is bigger than my apartment.

When I was headed down to the cafeteria in the Capitol, I saw Senator Tammy Duckworth and threw my hands to my face. The man who was pushing her wheelchair looked at me like I had just had a stroke.

I also thought it was a brilliant idea to leave for the presidential inauguration at 4 am. I emphasize idea, because I woke up at 5:30, threw on a pair of hole-y jeans and froze my butt off waiting for a parade of motorcycles and flag-twirlers to lead President Trump from one end of the street to the other.

I’m bound to make mistakes while I’m here. I’ve been fortunate enough that my mistakes haven’t resulted in jail time, but just a couple bruises and confused looks from strangers. Washington is wonderful and it’s an absolutely crazy time to be here. It has only been two weeks, but I’m already certain that it will be an equally as enjoyable four months.